MOTHERHOOD

Before I knew the world,

I knew a heartbeat—

soft, steady,

singing beneath my dreams.

Before I learned to walk,

there were hands that held me

when my little feet

did not yet understand the ground.

Mother's hands.

Hands that have washed away tears,

prepared meals when she was tired,

and opened doors

she sometimes wished someone

would open for her.

She is the first teacher

who taught me a language

without opening a book.

In her smile,

I learned comfort.

In her silence,

I learned that strength

does not always make a sound.

There were nights

when the world slept,

but she remained awake—

guarding tomorrow

with the tiredness of today.

And still,

morning would find her standing.

Not because life was easy,

but because love

had given her another reason

not to give up.

A mother is not made

only in the moment

a child enters the world.

She is made

in every sacrifice nobody sees,

every prayer whispered quietly,

every worry hidden behind a smile,

every time she chooses

someone else's need

beside her own.

Sometimes we forget.

We grow older.

We become busy.

We chase dreams,

cross oceans,

build lives of our own—

and forget the woman

who once held our entire world

inside her arms.

But no matter how far we travel,

there is something about home

that remembers her.

The smell of food.

The sound of her voice.

The warmth of a simple question:

“Have you eaten?”

Perhaps that is motherhood.

Not perfection.

Not a life without mistakes.

But a love that keeps showing up,

even when the heart is tired.

A love that says,

Go and become who you are meant to be.

And when the world becomes too heavy,

come back.

There will still be a place

where your name is spoken

with tenderness.

So today,

I honour the mothers

who are seen

and the ones whose sacrifices

remain hidden.

The mothers who work.

The mothers who pray.

The mothers who teach,

protect, encourage,

and begin again.

For behind many stories of strength,

there is often a woman

who once believed in someone

before they learned

to believe in themselves.

Motherhood is not always loud.

Sometimes,

it is simply a pair of tired hands

still reaching out—

and saying,

“I am here.”